I grit my teeth, a sudden burst of energy flooding me, and I release the bag, step back, and swing again, planting my right fist into the bag.
At least until I see you laugh. The anger warms my body, and I throw another punch. Or yell or scream or cry or fight or joke, and all in more than nods and one-word answers.
I slam my fist again.
And again.
I growl. “We’ll be snowed in in eight,” I mock his words to me in a whisper.
I shove my fist into the bag two more times and then step back, swinging my back leg into the bag once. Then twice. And again.
And then I just let him leave and didn’t say anything, even when he instructed me on how he likes his damn bacon cooked. I mean, if someone is doing something nice for you—you know, like cooking breakfast—you don’t balk at how it’s cooked. You eat it.
God, I wish I had some vegan bacon to really make his day. Amusement pulls at my lips, but I force it back.
I keep hitting and kicking the bag, a light sweat grazing my brow as I think of all the things I could’ve responded with. Why does it bug me so much I didn’t get the last word?
Why do I let everything go and never say anything?
I throw my fist into the bag and someone is suddenly there, holding it from the other side.
“Hi,” Noah says, peering around the bag at me.
He looks amused, and I halt, standing up straight. Was he watching me? Was I talking to myself?
His eyes crinkle a little more, and I see a self-satisfied grin peek out. “Don’t stop,” he tells me.
The dark blue T-shirt sets off the color of his eyes, and the same baseball cap holds his hair back where it sits backward on his head. He and his father look a lot alike.
I drop my eyes and back off, breathing hard. The muscles in my stomach burn.
But he keeps egging me on. “Come on.” He pats the bag where my last punch landed. “He can piss off a saint. Why do you think I hung this punching bag up in the first place?”
I press my lips together, still not moving.
He sighs and stands up straight. “Okay. Are you making breakfast, then?”
I dig in my eyebrows, unable to stop myself, and twist my body, swinging my leg with full force into the punching bag. He shoves himself away from the bag just before my foot lands and stands back wide-eyed with his palms up. I watch the bag swing back and forth.
I wasn’t trying to hit him. It would’ve just been a happy coincidence.
But my legs still feel charged, and I almost wish my uncle would walk in right now, so I could ask him to hold the bag instead.
I’m angry.
I’m actually angry.
And it feels good.
I’m still here.
Noah breaks into a chuckle and comes forward, hooking an arm around my neck. “You’ve got spunk.”
I’m too spent to pull away and let him lead me around, walking us both into the house.
“Come on. Help me make breakfast,” he says.
I place the third plate on the table and drop a fork and butter knife next to it, moving to the cabinet to put that fourth plate away.
“No, no,” Noah says, kicking the fridge closed and dumping the butter and jam on the table. “Put the fourth plate down. Kaleb can show up anytime.”
I glance at the table and then turn back to the cabinet, slipping the extra plate back inside. “Kaleb has a plate on the table.”
“You’re not eating?”
“Yes, she is,” Jake suddenly says, walking into the kitchen.
He heads for the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of juice and places it in the center of the table, pouring himself a cup of coffee before he sits.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him.
Moving to the sink, I rinse off the knife and spatula Noah just finished with.
“You didn’t have dinner,” Jake points outs. “Sit.”
“I’m not hungry.”
And before he says anything else, I stroll out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I feel his eyes on my back, and the farther I go away from them, the more I brace myself for a confrontation.
But he doesn’t chase after me.
He lets me go, and in a moment, I’m in my room, closing the door behind me.
The truth is I’m starving.
Pangs hit my stomach, and the scrambled eggs I made—while Noah was busy burning the bacon—looked amazing.
Luckily Noah didn’t press for much conversation while we were cooking, but if I eat with them, I’ll have to talk to them. I’ll wait until they’re back outside and then scrounge up something.
The green light on my phone flashes from where it lays on the bed, and I walk over and pick it up.